Voices Carry
by vikung-fu
Summary: At her desk, Nurse Cora reflects on the nature of a life lived in Dunwich, of forbidden passions and the baleful gaze of Wilbur Whateley. Nurse Cora/Mrs Cole.


**Voices Carry**

In the quiet of the fading autumn, it was easy to forget things, to concentrate on the little things that would make life bearable: warm clothing, the central heating on timer. In Dunwich, it was easy to focus on these little things as a means of getting by; in Dunwich, it was easy to describe anything inconvenient to dwell on as the work of the sinister old Whateley family and the old house at the edge of town.

Cora had been a child when she had first heard whispers about the old Whateley place. At the time, she had struggled to understand what she was being told, struggled to comprehend what was being said of that old family, but she knew enough to try to avoid the boy, Wilbur, his dark eyes and curls of coarse goatish hair. She remembered her mother saying, not without perhaps the suggestion of titillation, that the boy could make you do things, that he had a natural mesmerism that drew you in, that enticed you, compelled you to consider queer thoughts, strange impulses. As he grew, they said, so did this power, and it felt a relief when, during adolescence, the boy, seemingly now aware of the ill-repute the town held his family in, walled himself up in that old house of his on the outskirts where he lived alone save for his feral grandfather.

At her desk in Dr Cory's surgery, the outside dark, the boiler taking an age to kick in, and the lamp at her side dim, Cora remembered the compulsion of the child's presence with dangerous clarity, with vivid recollection, and, in the quiet of the fading autumn, felt a sense of shame at her recollection.

It had been a scarce few days since that girl had visited the surgery asking questions about the old Whateley place, talking of her missing girlfriend. Elizabeth Hamilton, the girl had introduced herself as, a student from Arkham. Cora had felt unable to ask directly, but every time the girl had said that she was looking for her girlfriend, she felt compelled to question as to whether it was her girlfriend or her _girlfriend_. It was not, she felt, her place to talk of such things, and yet she had been burning with curiosity.

Again, she recalled that child and his compelling presence, and, unbidden, came the memory of a time when they had been all been young, so very young, and the fruit had been rich and ripe in the Whateley orchards and she had been caught alone with the boy and also—

She shook her head. These were not things she should think of anymore. That girl she remembered so keenly from the past was _Mrs Cole_ now, she was not the adolescent girl who had so eagerly responded to Cora's touch, to her kisses, as that sinister boy had watched, his dark aura one of intense curiosity, of quiet excitement.

Beneath his gaze, Cora had felt herself free at last, a queer sort of oxymoron in that she was aware that her feelings, her movements were being manipulated, and yet it was hard to deny that she did _not_ feel such things, just as surely as the other girl, the future Mrs Cole, must have felt the same. It had occurred to her then, that as that boy, no older than 10-years-old, had observed them, that Cora had never been more liberated from convention and expectation, that she had been able to give herself over fully to desires and yearnings that she had hitherto been unable to admit to, that she would forever after be unable to admit to.

In the long grass of the orchard, she had felt the eager willingness of the girl beneath her, the warmth of her exposed flesh, the mounting excitement as they had pushed together in gentle rhythm, hips aching, tongues brushing one another, and the watchful eyes of Wilbur Whateley documenting their every move.

Again, she tried not to think of such things, shaking her head to dispel the thoughts—and yet, they would not disperse. Was that what she wanted, was that was she desired? To be an object, to be a possession, her autonomy denied, her movements at the behest of an external agency? Was that not what she already was, though, was not her work simply supplementary to the work of another, of a man, clerical tidying and appointment making, tasks that her employer considered beneath him.

Beneath him, she thought, and then again, _beneath her_, the shape of the other girl, damp with sweat and excitement, her adolescent glory, her youthful yearnings, their passions mounting in the lens of Wilbur Whateley's childish gaze.

There should be more than this, Cora thought, examining the artefacts of her day, eight hours out of 24 consumed with the movement of gathered papers from her desk to a filling cabinet and the answering of the telephone. There should be more than this, she thought again, there should be something else, some value, some meaning that ensured that all she had done, all she had felt had not been for nothing.

The light was dim, the boiler taking an age to warm the office, and Cora thought again on the passion of youth, the girl beneath her, the unfulfilled promises and the emptiness of Dunwich.

In the quiet of the fading autumn, it was easy to forget things.


End file.
